


I stand on this spot with my soul

by starlingsoftheslipstream



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:25:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlingsoftheslipstream/pseuds/starlingsoftheslipstream
Summary: The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime, the curious whether and how.





	I stand on this spot with my soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily based on a multitude of Walt Whitman poems all thrown together. I do use direct quotations from several of his poems, which are sometimes in italics, but sometimes just mixed in with dialogue and thoughts, and are also sometimes altered slightly. PLEASE, PLEASE do NOT read this if talk of suicidal thoughts is unhealthy for you physically or mentally. It is made explicitly clear in the story that Stiles has the intention of committing suicide, and I am placing a huge trigger warning RIGHT HERE because it is very important that anyone who reads this is safe and ok. If you ever find yourself feeling anything like Stiles, please reach out to someone! Writing this left me feeling both light and heavy.

“But I do not talk of the beginning or the end,” Stiles whispers into the night. “The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime. Should it all prove unreal in the end—the sense of what is real, the thought if after all it should prove unreal—”

            “Stiles?” Scott stands in the shadows on the edge of the clearing. His voice hangs between them, buzzing in the dark. He steps closer to Stiles, into the moonlight, _he’s so beautiful, he is good, he is right._ “God, you scared the fuck out of us. What are you doing out here?”

            Stiles cannot look at him because Stiles is darkness, _not good, not right, not a door, not a light,_ and Scott would be able to see it if he saw Stiles’ face. And Stiles tried so hard to be _the early lilacs_ and _the edge of the horizon,_ but it was never enough.

            When Scott steps even closer Stiles thinks, just maybe, _I will go now, and I will always go forth every day,_ but then he remembers that something became him, or he became something and now it is a part of him or he is a part of it and there is nothing he can do, nothing Scott can do.

            “Scott,” Stiles says simply, facing away from him. He thinks that maybe Scott is holding his breath. “You shouldn’t be here. You weren’t supposed to come.”

            And then Scott sees it, glinting in Stiles’ right hand, whispering _you know what I can do you know what he can do will you let it happen?_ And he freezes. Stiles grips the sheriff’s gun tighter, long fingers trembling, and Scott can’t breathe. His mind shouts _oh, god, you’re losing him_ , but suddenly his eyes are blazing, and he thinks _I will not let you get lost I love you I need you please stay._

            And finally, finally, Stiles turns to look at Scott. And Scott sees the _spread of purity that lies motionless_ within him, sees _the white and red morning glories, the white and red clover, the song of the phoebe-bird, the hurrying tumbling waves_ and _the strata of colored clouds._

“Stiles—”

            “I don’t know whether that which appears so is so. If they are not flashes and specks what are they?” Stiles mumbles.

            “You don’t sound like yourself, Stiles.” Scott begs with his eyes. And then his voice. “Please, put the gun down.”

            “I’m not myself. I am not _that_ ,” he hurries. “But I’m not myself. I am not the early lilacs,”

            “I know you aren’t _that_ ,” Scott reaches out, slowly, slowly. “ _Flames and ether make a rush for your veins.”_

            “Yes,” Stiles whispers. “I can’t stop it, Scott. I just want to sleep.”

            Scott can hear the others getting closer. They know something is wrong, they can feel it. Scott prays that a howl does not break the silence and take Stiles away.

            “The sunrise took my mother,” Stiles says suddenly. “I ascend from the moon.”

            “Stiles, I need you,” Scott’s eyes hold lighting and thunder. “Please, don’t do this. It’ll kill your father, and it’ll kill the pack. And don’t think for a second that I won’t put a bullet in my own head the second you go down.”

            Scott sees the _sparkle of starshine_ in Stiles’ eyes, reflecting off the icy earth.

            “I…” Stiles says again, slowly. “I am not myself.”

            “I won’t let you get lost, Stiles.” Scott promises, shaking. “We’ll find it.”

            Scott steps forwards again, and Stiles decides that that is much too close, spinning backwards, bringing the gun to press against his temple, cold and unwavering.

            “Will the whole come back, then?” Stiles questions hysterically. “I am _lost_ , Scott.”

            Suddenly, the pack is there, shadows on the edges of Scott’s vision. He smells the salt of tears, the sharp jolt of terror, hears hearts beating out the rhythm of panic and despair. He wills them to stay where they are, wills Lydia not to scream, not for Stiles.

            “The living sleep for their time and the dead sleep for theirs, alright, baby?” Scott says desperately. “Don’t sleep with the dead. Sleep with us, with the living, with the ones who love you. The ones who need you.”

            “My mother loves me,” Stiles cries, but it comes out as a question, ringing in the air.

            “Yeah, Stiles, she does,” Scott nods furiously. “She wants you to stay. She doesn’t want you to end your time before it’s meant to. Your time runs with mine, Stiles, forever.”

            “Sure as the most certain sure?” Stiles cannot keep the tremble from his voice.

            “I and this mystery, here we stand,” Scott nods. “Clear and sweet is your soul, Stiles. And clear and sweet is all that is not your soul. Put the gun down. Please.”

            “I talk wildly,” Stiles breathes, trembling, trembling. “I have lost my wits. I and nobody else am the greatest traitor. They have left me helpless to the red marauder.”

            “Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind us, Stiles,” Scott steps lightly, like the mist, shadows and aureola and mist. “They call our names from flower beds or vines or tangled underbrush, and maybe they sound like her, a dark hush, outward and outward and forever outward.”

            “And now I stand on this spot with my soul.” Stiles whispers.

            “And I with mine.”

            “But it stalks invisibly over the earth,” Stiles is frantic, frenzied, fire. “Whispering, counseling, cautioning.”

            “What does it say?” Scott asks, not daring to breath.

            “Behind all, a Shape.” Stiles bows his head. The gun is cool against his lips. “Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front and form in scarlet folds, Whose face and eyes none may see, Out of its robes only this: the red robes, lifted by the arm, One finger pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.”

            “Has it come for you?” Scott is no longer in his body.

            “Not yet,” Stiles sighs, shakes his head, twists his fingers.

            “I will not let it,” Scott cries desperately, eyes flashing, fangs eager to tear and rip and kill to keep Stiles safe.

            _He is glorious,_ Stiles thinks. _And in my soul, I swear I never will deny him._

Stiles longs for the dark, for the empty, for the pain and then the light. But he longs for Scott, still, still and more than he could ever want the Shape.

            “Do not let it,” Stiles pleads quietly, desperately, though still he cannot drop the gun. But those words were all that Scott needed. His welcome is universal. The flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal than he is.

            And suddenly, Scott is there, the _edge of the horizon,_ and he wrestles Death from Stiles’ hands. Scott pulls Stiles into his arms, _I will never let you go_ , and they sink to the ground, and the trees sway and the pack howls and they banish the Shape and Stiles is there, breathing and breathing and breathing.

            “I’m sorry,” Stiles sobs. “I’m so sorry, Scotty.”

            And Scott holds him tightly, holds him impossibly close. “I love you so much Stiles. I need you. I love you, and I won’t let you pass death with the dying. I will never let you go, Stiles, never again.”

            And he and Stiles cling to each other as the wolves cry and thank the gods for the boy who was never measured and never will be measured, the best of time and space, _O stars of heaven, O suns, O grass of graves,_ it is no longer chaos or death, but immortality, nothing but immortality. The wolves do not know how immortal, but Scott knows, knows that Stiles is the leavings of many deaths, reckons that he himself has died ten thousand times before, for Stiles, with Stiles, he and Stiles and the tasteless water of souls, true sustenance. It is form and union and plan. It is eternal life. It is happiness.

           

           

 


End file.
